


Real-World Applications of Competitive Flirting

by Yellow_Bird_On_Richland



Series: used to be a gazelle (now she runs with the lions) [2]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Applying critical literary theory to television, Character Study: Annie Edison, Character Study: Greendale Community College, F/F, I will hear no arguments against this take/analysis, Late season Greendale is a modern Gothic horror site imbued with elements of semi-toxic domesticity, M/M, Place-as-character personification, lesbian Annie Edison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland/pseuds/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland
Summary: Annie pivots on her heel, and as she does, she notices Jeff turn towards the bar. Notices his gaze lingering there.“Maybe he just wants to get another whiskey neat in a hurry,” she thinks hopefully, but she tracks his movements in one of the many mirrors on her way to the bathroom. Watches him pull up the chair next to the redhead.Of course. Of fucking course.
Relationships: Annie Edison/Original Female Character(s), Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Series: used to be a gazelle (now she runs with the lions) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013109
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	Real-World Applications of Competitive Flirting

**Author's Note:**

> Based largely on an anonymous Tumblr message outlining Annie stealing a person of interest away from Jeff while the study group is out at a bar. Thank you, brilliant anon. The fic expanded into more of an exploration of Annie’s character in the beginning, as well as Greendale’s influence on who she is and who she wants to become. Set in early S5. Got a little darker than I initially intended, but also more compelling.

They approach L Street and a striking redhead going in ahead of them holds the door open for their motley group. Annie's half-relieved and half-nauseous at just how easily she, and the rest of her friends, have re-settled into Greendale routines since returning to school. Meetings around the study table, some late nights in the library, copping a sesame seed bagel with strawberry cream cheese from Einstein's Cafe before her early Thursday morning class, going out all together once a month or so: all of these familiar, routine touchpoints keep her grounded (and once upon a time, she'd say the safety was well worth the tradeoff of being unable to fly, but now, she's not so sure). She walks around Greendale almost perpetually on auto-pilot, as the paths are inherently knowable to her, like the easily memorized, near-sterile quality of any Subway sandwich and salad combo. The campus is cozy, if a little cramped, an observation that comes to mind as she, Troy, Abed, Jeff, and Britta knock knees and elbows when they squeeze into either side of one of L Street's too-small booths.

The rote repetitions of their days, nights, and weeks at Greendale have penetrated other areas of their lives, too—down to not just their beer and cocktail orders, but even the rotation in which they order the drinks themselves. Such patterns are comforting, but almost hauntingly so, like a suffocating hug that forces its recipient to release a rattling cough after it's over. And the warmth of security, of being encased in a bubble, might just slowly kill Annie, like a frog happily boiling to death without ever registering any danger. That macabre feeling's probably got something to do with her recent realization that their little quintet has, collectively, spent nearly twenty-one years (and counting) at Greendale, running on treadmills, the time zooming by as they grow and laugh and learn together while ultimately going nowhere.

She wonders, _"Can you measure progress internally? Can that be enough, to not have any achievements to track?"_ For her, that answer is, as always, a resounding "no," which explains why she's thrown herself into the Save Greendale Committee's work with near-reckless, headlong abandon.

Annie remembers, in the before-time, back in high school, how she'd turned her nose up at the very idea of community colleges. How she'd believed, as the dean had announced during her first week there, that they were for lesser students, for ex-jocks who lacked the talent or brains to procure D-1 scholarships, along with middle-aged parents trying to improve themselves to maintain a fragile foothold in the middle class. She knows better now, and Greendale's better than she'd initially believed it could be. But, despite its improvements, she still feels like it's little more than a nicely polished halfway house.

And if that halfway house is Annie's _home_ , in a way, then what does that say about her? What does it say about all of them, really, that they've transformed a stopgap, the educational equivalent of a train station or, at best, a meager, dimly lit regional airport with old, rickety planes that rattle as if turbulence could be an oversized trash compactor, into the most welcoming institution in their shared lives? That a space that most people rightfully treat as a rest-stop or a waypoint is their final destination?

Greendale reminds her of the stunted, droopy tree from _A Charlie Brown Christmas_. As a lifelong type-A overachiever, conditioned to strive for perfection from roughly the second grade on, Annie had always thought that masking the tree's weaknesses—its pathetic, dull pine needles, its short stature—with bright lights and eye-catching ornaments would only highlight its imperfections further, would underscore the absurdity of trying to create the perfect holiday season with a patently unfit tree. Nevertheless, she can't dismiss that there's something noble in its honest, homespun appearance.

It suddenly hits her, where she's most clearly seen Greendale as that tree, of how the school invites transience and permanence in one go with its cheery, yet insidiously ominous, "You're already accepted!" slogan: near Jeff's office. He's gotten a nice new metal nameplate outside the door, a shiny greeting for an outdated space that's entirely too small and sad to be suitable for two middle-aged professors. Not to mention, it's clearly been home to many pairs of nameless, faceless adjuncts over the years, and not in a cared-for, beloved, well-worn way.

Although Annie's sure the dean had sprung for the sign as a special gift for Jeff, it lends an eerie air of permanence to his position. After all, the man who insisted he wanted to do nothing more than get in, get his degree, and get out is now embedded in Greendale, indebted to it for his livelihood, at the moment. He even has his own page on the school's website, to boot. Though, of course, Jeff's left it blank, hasn't even bothered to upload his Intro to Law syllabus because, as he'd snorted to the rest of them during one committee meeting, "Why should I bother giving an effort? It's _Greendale_."

Annie's not sure how to tactfully tell Jeff that he's following the Chang, Duncan, and general Greendale art-form of teaching carelessly. That in "radically rejecting" his stature as an educator in the college, he's actually strengthening his marriage to it. She thinks he might know it, might realize he's shrinking into a tragic, Dick Diver-esque figure, even if he wouldn't get the reference from her 20th Century American Lit class. Sure, he's a much better person now than he was when they all arrived at Greendale, there's no debating that. But there's a certain diminishing to one's quality of life when you go from raking in six figures annually to making, at the absolute best, half of that (probably closer to one third, honestly) working at a community college, and Jeff can't quite hide the quiet desperation in his gulps of whiskey anymore.

They've all developed blind spots for each other over the years, but Annie's trying to narrow hers more, trying to mitigate just how often people need to check up on her, because she's already suffered enough metaphorical car crashes in her life, and she wants to get through Greendale without feeling like an airbag's weight is pressed against her chest, somehow saving her and threatening to crush the life from her lungs at the same time.

" _Hey, you're not taking that Philosophy of Overthinking class,"_ she chides herself as she sips her first gin and tonic of the night. _"Try to relax a little."_

She manages that for a few minutes, lets herself sink into L Street's upscale casual atmosphere and ambience, into Troy and Abed's easy back-and-forth over the most fun _Mario Kart 64_ level—she's pretty partial to Frappe Snowland, herself—when she again spots the redhead who'd kindly held the door open for them when they'd first arrived.

She's not, like, supermodel pretty or anything, but she displays an easy grace as she dodges around a waitress with a slick sidestep, a nimble shoulder shimmy, and a polite, out of place, midwestern, "Ope, lemme sneak past ya there," on her way to the bar. Her outfit—a black long sleeve top, a dark-wash jean skirt, black leggings, and booties—makes a slyly sensual statement without trying too hard and accentuates her torso, her legs, and her 5'6, 5'7 height, if Annie had to guess at it.

Not that she's ogling her or anything. No way. She's not a gross _man_ , for crying out loud. She's just looking respectfully, that's all.

Annie's rarely been out while she's out and about in public. It's not that Greendale, and the surrounding bits of Denver, are homophobic or unwelcoming or anything like that; far from it. It's more that she's mostly been in a shit mood thanks to having a shit pseudo-pharmaceutical job that barely paid rent (thank God she'd managed to get her old part-time job in the Whole Foods' produce department back since she returned to Greendale, because she needs the money). So she hasn't really been looking for any girl who could potentially capture her interest. This mystery, woman, though...she's got Annie roped in, at least a little, and that's before the sound of her laugh—a loud, irreverent, braying snort at a joke from the bartender—buries itself in her navel like a fishhook.

_Yank._

**

"Annie, where are you going?"

She's not sure who asks the question—it might've come from the whole hive mind—and she suddenly realizes she's standing, having alighted from her perch on the outside seat of the Trobedison side of the booth.

"Oh, I'm just gonna go to, uh, the bathroom," she stammers, starting off in the wrong direction before Jeff nods toward the back and comments coolly, with a questioning squint, "It's that way."

"Thanks." She pivots on her heel, and as she does, she notices him turn towards the bar. Notices his gaze lingering there.

" _Maybe he just wants to get another whiskey neat in a hurry,"_ she thinks hopefully, but she tracks his movements in one of the mirrors on her way to the bathroom. Watches him pull up the chair next to the redhead.

Of course. Of fucking course.

" _Never mind that she looks twenty-four or twenty-five. Just keep on refusing to pursue any woman even remotely close to your own age, Jeff, that's clearly a healthy habit_. _"_ Annie scowls at the back of his dumb head as she returns from the bathroom, then sucks down the rest of her gin and tonic and orders another for good measure.

"Is Caroline Decker making an appearance tonight?" Britta teases as Annie starts sipping her second cocktail.

"If so, we'll need to invoke our contingency plans and cut you off sooner rather than later," Abed notes, and Troy adds, "Caroline can stir up some shit-quakes in a hurry."

Annie rolls her eyes. "No, Caroline Decker isn't coming out tonight. Probably not ever again. _Maybe_ when we all graduate properly."

"Well, what's wrong?" Troy asks. "You look peeved, like when we ask you to help edit our English papers and we've only written two or three paragraphs."

Abed points at her with the end of his bendy straw. "And your rate of alcohol consumption is definitely higher than normal."

She sighs, glances moodily at this woman whose name she doesn't even know, this woman who's undoubtedly straight and into Jeff's muscles and hair and smile and fascinating stories, anyway. "It's nothing. I'm being stupid."

She can't keep her eyes from flickering back to the bar once in a while, though, and she and the mystery woman catch each other's gazes in the ornate mirror for a second. She offers Annie the tiniest hint of an upward chin tilt, almost a mere suggestion of a 'sup nod, before turning back to face Jeff, and Annie nearly chokes on her G+T.

Jeff gets up to head to the bathroom, and Annie watches the woman give a bemused head shake, with—she's probably projecting here—a tinge of exasperation. The redhead finishes her drink, and Annie decides, _"Screw it. I've humiliated myself in worse ways than this before."_

"If you're going to the bar, could you get me another Sierra Nevada Pale Ale?" Abed asks as she gets up.

"I can't right now, Abed, I'm sorry. I'm going on a quest." She knows that answer will intrigue him enough to keep him occupied until their waiter comes back around to their table.

She slides into Jeff's chair and nods at the bartender. Wonders if she'll actually have the guts to do this. She takes a deep breath, counts to three, releases it, then asks, "Could I get a water with lemon for myself, and for the woman who's just had her ear talked off by my good friend, Jeff, a…?"

The woman turns to her in surprise, and Annie's about two seconds from dashing back to the safety of her table when she replies, "Another Old Fashioned, please."

The bartender brings their drinks over in short order, they both reply, "Thanks," and the redhead lifts her mason jar in Annie's direction. "Who's my mysterious booze patron? And how do you know Jeff?"

"I'm Annie. Annie Edison." She offers her hand out for a shake, and the woman takes it. Her right hand is soft, well-moisturized, but her fingers are ridged and riddled with calluses. "Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn Jennings."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance." She'd picked up the line from Abed recently during one of their noir film nights, and he's right, it _is_ a smooth one. "And I know Jeff from school. Greendale. We're part of a study group. Well. _Were_ part of a study group. It's a long story."

She groans internally. _"God, you're hopeless around attractive women."_

Kaitlyn chuckles, at least, though. "He told me a little something about that." She sips her drink, and Annie counts the number of seeds in the lemon slice in her water to avoid staring at the wetness on her lips, to keep from watching the way she flicks her hair back, away from her face. "So, I don't mean to be impertinent, but…" she hesitates, and Annie notes, _"Good vocab word,"_ as Kaitlyn asks, sounding like she's working out the question for herself, "Are you, like, Jeff's wingwoman or something? What's going on here?"

"No. I'm kind of hoping to be the opposite of that, actually," Annie responds as suavely as possible, taking a drink of water since her mouth's gone dry.

It's not the clearest answer ever, but she's not brave enough to just outright hit on women, and anyway, such frankness always seems a touch skeezy to her.

Kaitlyn smirks at her little bit of duplicity, at her unspoken response. "Even when Jeff came over here to chat me up, I thought I could still feel another set of eyes on me. So that particular mystery's resolved."

Annie blushes beet red, stutters, "I...I...sorry, my friend, Britta," she nods in her direction, "is a psych major and I'm into forensics and we people-watch a lot when we're out and…" Kaitlyn's eyebrows crinkle in confusion at her yammering, and Annie suddenly hears her mom's voice, Mrs. McMahon's voice (for being a high school French teacher in her mid-30s, she was a right bitch), her own voice, and even the biting whisper she'd assigned to the little white Adderall pills, all buzzing in a low, debilitating hum in her head.

_Not good enough, not good enough, Not Good Enough._

"I'm...I'm just gonna go," Annie stammers, about to get up, but then Kaitlyn murmurs, "Hey," and reaches toward her, her curled fingers nearly touching Annie's left hand, almost brushing her knuckles. It's a similar gesture to the barely-there touches she and Troy sometimes offer Abed to soothe him—stroking his hair, or gently rubbing circles on his back, or running a hand up and down his arm—and it calms her down, too.

"If you're determined to dash off, at least explain what drew you to me before you go."

Kaitlyn doesn't just level Annie with her gaze, she fucking decks her with it, with deep green eyes, like, Harry Potter's emerald dress robes green. Annie takes another sip of her water and concentrates way too hard on successfully swallowing it, because despite being out for a good eight months, and openly recognizing that she likes women for a bit over a year now, they still put her brain on the fritz more often than not.

Annie steels her mind, wills it to not go full chloroform mode, then answers, "Well, you held the door open for us when we were coming in, and you said please and thank you to the bartender. Those small kindnesses are always attractive to me. And the way you've done your nails is neat," she nods shyly, admiring the periwinkle blue and deep purple colors. "The strokes look careful, precise, detailed. I'm that way about a lot of things. And I like that you did your pinkies in a different color. Sort of like calculated spontaneity."

" _You sound like a fucking stalker,"_ she laments, but Kaitlyn's got this soft smile on her face and it pulls more words out of her mouth and Annie doesn't bother trying to stop them, since she's already made a fool of herself, anyway. "Plus, the way you dodged that one waitress, kinda near our table? That was smooth, and really athletic. Almost like a dance step. So, um. Yeah." Britta's always telling her to apologize less, but she can't help it, it's second nature, so she adds, "Sorry, it's just, our other friend Abed is a filmmaker, and we kinda all study people closely, and...yeah." She blows out another breath. "I swear, Kaitlyn, I'm not trying to be creepy, or weird."

"You're not." Kaitlyn tilts her head, sort of like how Annie does when she's contemplating the best way to transition to a new paragraph in an essay, and then she goes on, "At least, you're not _too_ creepy. I'd put weird at, say, five percent?"

Annie frowns. "Five percent of what?"

"How I feel about you," Kaitlyn murmurs as she stirs her drink and takes a long pull of it. Her soft grin turns sharp in an instant, and goosebumps spike up on the back of Annie's neck at the predatory shift.

She tests her luck. "What's the other ninety-five percent?"

She taps her chin in response, twirls her hair with a pointer finger, and, _"Oh my God, I think she's flirting with me,"_ Annie realizes. After another excruciating second, Kaitlyn answers thoughtfully, "I'd say I'm split pretty evenly between flattered and intrigued. Which, based on my past experience, is more than enough reason for you to stay. If you're so inclined."

Her rejoinder comes out before she can stop it, since she's nothing if not competitive. "I am. And how do those percentages compare to Jeff's?"

Kaitlyn's green eyes gleam bright at her response, like she can sense her drive already, and she leans in conspiratorially. "Don't worry, Annie. Yours are better."

**

She glows golden at the affirmation as Jeff comes back from the bathroom. And from possibly flirting with another woman, based on his extended delay. He smiles warmly at Kaitlyn, then sees who's taken his spot. "Annie?" he frowns. "Are you waiting to get a drink for someone else at our table?"

"No," she answers, and she desperately wants to say more, but she's not sure how to do it.

"Hi, Jeff," Kaitlyn nearly purrs.

Annie's about to lose her mind because _what the fuck is this woman playing at_ , until Kaitlyn simpers, "Britta mentioned she had something really important to talk to you about."

He barks out a short laugh. "If it's Britta who said that, then it can wait." He jerks his head up at Annie, like, " _Get outta my seat, kid_ ," but then Kaitlyn adds, with a wide-eyed, almost mournful gaze, "I'm sorry, Jeff, it's just—she said it's _really_ urgent." She breaks eye contact with him, reestablishes it with Annie, and lies smoothly, "Abed told us the same thing, didn't he, Annie?"

She nods dumbly, impressed at the fact that she remembers their friends' names, just before the penny drops. Because she's been on the receiving end of Kaitlyn's tactics plenty of times in her life, mostly from guys in high school, but sometimes at Greendale, too. The not quite paper-thin excuse, the head turn to cut off eye contact, the earnest, sympathetic, slightly disingenuous smile that says, _"Please, for both our sakes, don't make me spell it out. I don't want to have to do that. It's less messy this way."_

Annie can't quite believe Kaitlyn's using these dismissals on Jeff, and it sounds like he can't, either, as he stiffly replies, "I'll go check in with them, then." He shuffles off, trying to mask his despondency by straightening his back as he walks away, acting like nothing's wrong.

But something _is_ wrong, something unexpected happened. Jeff Winger, ladies man extraordinaire and consummate charmer, just got summarily rejected by (in Annie's humble opinion) a gorgeous woman.

" _Kaitlyn turned down Jeff so she can keep talking to me,"_ she whispers to herself. Even if nothing else happens, that's a resounding victory.

Giddiness courses through her veins, warms her chest like a double shot of Lagavulin, so she scoots closer to her potential object of affection. "I took a shot in the dark earlier when I said Jeff talked your ear off, but I'm guessing that might've happened?"

"He just tried _way_ too hard," she confesses, and Annie giggles as she pictures Jeff trotting out all his greatest hits in an outsized attempt to impress his target. Truthfully, one at a time, they're effective—he's got witty banter, heartfelt compliments, and interesting anecdotes, she knows. But taken all together, they can be a bit much.

"Well, I'm glad I haven't made that mistake, then," Annie chuckles. "And, I'm curious—what's your story?"

Kaitlyn steeples her fingers together. "Where do you want me to start?"

Annie contemplates her response for a beat, then picks her launching point. "How about—are you from Colorado?"

Kaitlyn shakes her head. "Grew up in Ohio, mostly, but my family bounced around a decent bit. My dad was in the Army and we settled here once he got into the administrative side of the military when I was sixteen, I think? Been here ever since, went to college at the Denver branch of Colorado University. How about you?"

"Born and raised in Colorado. Lived in Greendale basically my whole life," Annie answers with a wistful sigh, and she's pleasantly surprised at how quickly Kaitlyn picks up on that, at how she asks, "Got some wanderlust to satisfy?"

"I'd like to roadtrip with my roommates sometime, but, seeing as we're all broke college students…" she shrugs. She's learned relinquishing dreams is easier than Disney movies ever let on.

"Do that before you get sucked into a nine-to-five, trust me. Even if you only go a state or two over," Kaitlyn answers, and Annie's nodding like this woman she just met knows exactly what she's talking about, but she seems more self-assured, more solid, more grounded in reality, than most people she encounters at Greendale.

"So you're already in the working world, then?" Annie surmises.

"Yeah, I do grant development. Mostly for local municipalities, towns and villages across the state. And I've worked with nonprofits and public schools, too, here or there."

"You know," Annie answers slowly, "we could use someone with your talents at Greendale."

She pulls a face. "No offense, but I've heard the school's a clusterfuck and the dean can barely work a copier, let alone run the whole place."

"You're not wrong," Annie laughs, "but we're—myself, and my friends, and some dedicated faculty members—part of a Save Greendale committee." Trying to wheedle Kaitlyn to her side, she goes on, "We've developed a robust marketing plan, and I've started writing donor letters. Plus, I've developed a comprehensive list of challenges we need to address, and a corresponding action guide with time-oriented solutions." Kaitlyn's gradually perked up at her description, and she's gazing at Annie with something that feels a touch foreign when she realizes what it is.

It's respect.

"Interesting." Kaitlyn's slow nods seem to convey a bit of approval. "It sounds like you're pretty on top of things."

"Yeah. But, like I said, we could really use someone with grants experience. If you'd be interested, I could share our plans in more detail sometime." Annie gulps and suggests, as nonchalantly as she can, "Say, over dinner."

Kaitlyn's fingers ghost over her hand again as she leans forward. "Are you proposing that for business, or for pleasure?"

Annie blinks the stars out of her vision, but she can only see vibrant green eyes and red curls behind her closed eyes, anyway, before she croaks out, "Both. Leaning more toward the latter."

Kaitlyn places her hand on top of Annie's, whispers, "Good answer," and she forgets how to breathe for a second before her new acquaintance asks, "Have you ever had your palm read, Annie?"

"No." She shakes her head, and she's already almost saying yes as Kaitlyn asks, "Do you want to?"

They chuckle at each other and blush, as Kaitlyn explains, "My older brother was really into this, and Tarot cards, a while ago. He called it mystic magic, which used to sound kinda cheesy to me, but, I don't know, I eventually sort of followed in his footsteps with it. I'm hardly an expert, though."

Annie's usually meager supply of daring confidence isn't drained, surprisingly. If anything, her success is replenishing it. "I'm cool with it. Do you want to read my right or left?"

"Whichever is your dominant one, please," so Annie extends her right hand out.

"This might sound weird, but I'm gonna, um, kinda study your hand for a minute." Annie's struck, again, by the contrast between soft and rough, in the gentle way Kaitlyn holds her wrist, in the calluses she feels touching the back of her hand as Kaitlyn gazes at her palm like it might contain the secrets of the universe, and Annie summons a touch more courage to pipe up, "Do you play guitar, perchance, Kaitlyn?"

"No," she murmurs, her eye contact not straying from Annie's hand. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just—those are some pretty deep calluses on your fingers." She winces as she says it, as Kaitlyn draws her hand back a smidge. _"Great job, self. Really smooth."_

"Sorry, are they irritating your skin? I knew I should've—"

Annie can hear an incoming self-reprimand in her voice, and if she can't keep from beating herself up, she can at least try to help someone else avoid doing it to themselves, so she quickly interrupts, "No, they're not bothering me, not at all. I was just curious, but now I'm realizing that was a really rude question to ask out of the blue. Sorry."

Kaitlyn dismisses her apology with a wave. "This might sound dumb, but people don't ever actually ask about my calluses. The response is usually more like…" she pulls her face back in a dramatic, faux-grimace and Annie can't help but laugh. "And I do a lot of rock climbing, but I never wear gloves, which is how I get all of 'em. I just need to _feel_ the rock or the grips to really be present when I climb, to block out stress and relax, you know?"

She flexes her fingers, and Annie has no idea what she means, but that's not gonna keep her from lying and nodding, as if she ever does anything more active than reluctantly drag herself to Greendale's gym once or twice a week, because she wants Kaitlyn to keep talking.

She obliges. "I had pretty bad ADHD when I was younger," she mentions, "and my folks were big into signing me up for physical recreation stuff to wear me out. But I didn't like team sports too much, so when I got into climbing, my parents encouraged it. I've kept up with it ever since. That and snowboarding, sometimes."

"That's—" Annie's about to say "that's cool," but such a response would hardly be memorable to a woman who could probably have her pick of suitors out of any bar, so she wracks her brain for a minute to come up with something better. And as she's doing that, she really studies Kaitlyn's body. Not the assets Jeff, or a typical guy, would be drawn to, as much, though she can't help but notice her trim waistline and toned legs. Instead, she studies the sinewy muscle she sees in her forearms, now that her sleeves are rolled up, eyes the way her bicep flexes and her taut skin ripples as she lifts a fresh vodka soda to her lips. Checks out the small tattoo of red and blue roses on the inside of her left wrist and the elegant cursive script just under it that reads, _"Keep blooming."_ Catalogues the broad width of her shoulders, imagines seeing her triceps and calves work as she pulls and steps her way up a rock-climbing wall, to round everything out, and concludes: _"Kaitlyn Jennings is a little bit of an animal."_

Annie doesn't mean that in a bad way, at all, but she's never felt like that about her own body, never ascribed such positive wildness to it. When she's an animal, it's more of a graphic descent, all screaming red and raw vocal cords and bulldozing her friends and barreling through kid-laden traffic in front of a school at seventy-six miles per hour (only mentally, of course).

" _You're a bit of an animal during paintball, though,"_ some part of her subconscious whispers, and she thinks back to the satisfying ache in her bones after she spends the better part of a day with her arms locked, gun cocked, honing in on threats and targets. Considers how sharply she can turn corners, how her cheerleader past comes in handy when she somersaults behind cover, stands ramrod straight against an alcove wall to evade fire, and drops from ceiling vents during assassination attempts. Recalls the delicious spike of adrenaline she can almost _taste_ when she aims down her sights at some poor, unsuspecting victim.

"That's what, Annie?"

Kaitlyn's question hauls her back to the present. After she's ordered a rum and coke to keep the bartender from throwing dirty looks at her, Annie changes course and finds the perfect response in a question of her own.

"Does the physicality in rock climbing and snowboarding make you feel more alive?"

Kaitlyn lights up at that. _Jackpot_. "Yeah. Yeah, it does. You really are observant, aren't you."

Her voice dips low with that compliment, and Annie sinks to meet it. "It's easy when you get to consider an intriguing, beguiling subject."

Jeff posits that flirting is an art form, and Annie always says that's a crock of shit, but god _damn_ if she doesn't feel like Pablo fucking Picasso right now.

**

She's definitely not imagining the sparks ricocheting between her and Kaitlyn, not when they're leaning so close together that they're nearly tipping off their bar stools and their legs are brushing up against each other as Kaitlyn takes her hand again.

"So, I can do a past, present, and future reading, if that's cool with you?" and she smiles at Annie's quick assent.

"Okay, so starting with your past—I like to share a little bit about my family to sort of put the person I'm reading with at ease. You can follow suit if you like, or not, totally up to you," she informs Annie as she traces lines over her palm. "So, besides what I've already told you, let's see...my brother's a high school science teacher in California. Luckily, he's in a private district that pays well, and his wife's a financial analyst, so he'll never have to go Walter White or anything to pay for their kid's medical bills. We've grown apart a little as we've aged, which kinda sucks, but we're still pretty close. I wish we could see each other more, but other than that, I can't really complain." She shrugs. "Do you have any siblings, Annie?"

"One younger brother. We're not super tight, though."

"And the rest of your family?" Kaitlyn prompts, then grimaces, mostly to herself. "Sorry. I don't mean to get so personal right away, if that bothers you. It's just, I..." she gently squeezes Annie's hand. "I can sense some pain in your past, based on my reading. Like, literally, too, there's tiny remnants of scar tissue in your hand. So I was wondering if there's any truth to that, or if I'm misinterpreting things."

"It doesn't bother me," Annie reassures her, which is crazy, because she met this woman, what, half an hour ago? But she's open, seemingly trustworthy, and Annie senses a warmth to her. It's different from Greendale warmth, more of a comfortable fireplace than a suffocating, smoky one.

" _And spending so long hiding and rejecting parts of myself that I didn't like wasn't the most healthy strategy, either,"_ Annie admits, so she takes a gulp of her drink, swallows, and tells Kaitlyn, "And you're reading things well. I'm a recovering type-A perfectionist, and a fully recovered former Adderall addict. I checked myself into rehab right after high school, and my parents weren't exactly supportive of that decision. And that's how I ended up at Greendale in the first place."

Kaitlyn's emerald eyes flash with righteous indignation, and that sight, along with the way she murmurs, almost reverently, "You're a fucking badass, then, Annie Edison," offers a stronger buzz than her mixed drink.

"Thanks," she breathes. She can nearly feel electricity crackling in their eye contact before they both blink and look away for a second, and then Kaitlyn clears her throat and guides them on in her reading.

"So, considering the sort of jagged lines here," she traces over a path on Annie's hand, "your current outlook is a bit challenging. It's not quite straightforward."

She smirks. "Well, I'm not, either, so that tracks."

Kaitlyn's grin back is downright wicked. "That makes two of us. Now, for the future reading...do you mind closing your eyes for me?"

"Do you always ask people to do that during this part?" Annie asks, flashing her Disney eyes and loving when she sees Kaitlyn freeze up for a second before she answers, "Yep. It's standard operating procedure."

Annie nods. "Okay. Let's see how this goes."

"Thanks for trusting me to do this, by the way," Kaitlyn murmurs. "I really appreciate it. And you're smart enough to know this anyway, I'm sure, but this is just one interpretation of things, so take it with a grain of salt."

"Of course."

She claps her hands together. "Alright, then. To summarize, you've overcome a lot, Annie, even if you're still going through some difficulties now. But there's this upward arc, here," she touches a spot beneath Annie's pointer finger, "that's shaped almost like an arrow. So you're on the right track, even if it's not always easy to see that or believe it. And there's one other message coming through."

Annie's not sure if it's trepidation or excitement that flickers across her face. "What is it?"

"Just a sec. We need a bit more clarity." She calls to the bartender, "Excuse me, could you pass me...yeah, thank you." Annie's not sure what she's gotten—her tab, or a water, maybe—when she feels Kaitlyn's left hand under her right, supporting it.

Annie gasps as she registers the cool swipe of ink across her palm, as she feels the words being written out in tight, neat, school-teacher cursive: _Call me_. Feeling Kaitlyn's handwriting and visualizing the words and her phone number in her head is more seductive than actually seeing the missive. Or, at least, that's what she thinks until she slowly blinks open her eyes and looks at it, then notices the furious blush in Kaitlyn's cheeks.

"So, um...is that message obvious enough?" Kaitlyn asks, and Annie's pleased to hear the tiniest edge of nerves in her otherwise smooth delivery.

"Yes. Yes, definitely." Annie looks like a bobblehead, nodding so much, but she doesn't care. "I'll call you tomorrow," she promises. "If that's alright?"

"Yeah. That's more than alright, actually. I like a woman who doesn't fuck around when she knows what she wants. Or _who_ she wants," Kaitlyn adds with a wink and a drawl, like she's gotten her moxie back, like she knows she's got Annie strung out on the end of her line, and _God,_ does she ever. "Dinner next weekend, then?" she confirms.

"That sounds lovely," Annie breathes as they both get up, and Kaitlyn offers her a parting handshake.

"It was an absolute _pleasure_ to meet you, Annie, and I look forward to talking to you more tomorrow."

"Likewise, Kaitlyn." It feels like she just closed the greatest business deal of all time, and she immediately adds the number to her phone as her date departs.

The rest of the group's pretending not to stare as she leaves, but she nods in their general direction with an irreverent grin, and it's all Annie can do to keep from laughing her pants off. Because she just picked up a woman at a bar—hell, whisked a woman _away from Jeff Winger_ at a bar—and got her number. And an agreed-upon dinner date.

She considers playing it cool, being demure, before she tells herself, _"You just did that. You've fully earned the right to be cocky for the rest of the evening, at least."_

So she doesn't walk back to them. She struts.

She doesn't _mean_ to target Jeff, but—oh, fuck it, who's she kidding, yes, she does.

"Hey, Jeff?"

His face is stone. "Hmm?"

"I was just wondering, do you still want Kaitlyn's phone number? Because, um…" she slowly lifts her hand up close to his face and smirks. "I got it, if you're interested."

Their jaws all drop, and Annie offers her best Michael Jordan shrug in response. Abed recovers first to solemnly proclaim, "The student has surpassed the master."

Meanwhile, Troy's delivering his best Trey Songz impression for the opening _"Oh, oh, oh, ohhh,"_ of "Bottoms Up," and Britta slings an arm around Annie to croon, _"It's missus steal yo girl,"_ before straight-up taunting Jeff with her adjustment to the lyrics.

Jeff shakes his head, like, _"What godforsaken timeline is this,"_ before lifting his nearly empty beer glass to Annie with a genuine, if slightly pained, smile. "If I have to lose a potential date to someone, at least it's you, and not some random sleazeball," he congratulates her. "Hope you have fun with Kaitlyn whenever you two go out, Annie."

Her grin stretches her face so wide it nearly hurts. "I'm pretty damn sure we will," she confirms, and she thinks, _"I'll definitely have to thank Kaitlyn for the positive attitude adjustment before I see her next weekend."_

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know where I got the palm reading idea, but I just wanted some charged and softly intimate touching between these two ladies.


End file.
